


Cuteness Overload

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sappy Ending, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 14:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15753393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock reacts badly to being called 'cute' after having a haircut. He has no idea what's wrong with him. He will find out eventually.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> A short and rather weird story :)

Sherlock was pissed off. Like all the time. Constantly. It required so much self-control to not have a fit each and every day. He nearly choked at the tiniest provocation these days. With the last of his composure, he refrained from shouting at people and stomping with his foot and merely glared and sulked but he had caught some surprised glances from John lately. When the doctor opened his mouth to ask him what was wrong, Sherlock held up an imperious hand to shut him up. He knew that wouldn’t work forever…

What was bothering him the most was that he didn’t have any reason to feel that wound-up. It was like a non-stop, figurative itch under his skin, under his scalp even, and he couldn’t name it and it drove him mental.

Actually everything was like it should be. 221b was back in its usual glory, John and Rosie were living with him and he got along well with his best friend again. A few '10'-cases had popped up lately, he had managed to make Eurus talk again when he visited her in Sherrinford and she seemed, well, not exactly _normal_ as she was a _Holmes_ after all but noticeably less creepy than she had been through the course of the 'final problem'. And neither of the participants of this funny adventure had suffered any lasting damage - well, except for the ones that had been killed of course. He had found back his memories of Victor and child Eurus.

Everything was as it should be. And still he was feeling like walking over sand and tiny shards of glass with bare feet and he didn’t know why or what to do against it.

And then it was Wednesday and Sherlock reached the end of his tether. It started with nothing worse than a haircut and ended in shocking discoveries, outrageous developments and, in the end, pure bliss.

*****

“Oh, Sherlock, you look so cute!”

“What?!”

“Your hair! So short, you look so different!” Mrs Hudson beamed at him.

Sherlock grumbled something. He had not asked the barber to sheer him like a bloody sheep! “It will grow again,” he growled.

“It looks wonderful. So cute!”

'Cute'! That was exactly what _Antoine_ had said about him after this disaster of a haircut, with a false – and slightly scared – smile plastered onto his chubby-cheeked face. _“No reason to be upset! You look cute, Monsieur Sherlock! Finally we see your pretty face!”_

Sherlock had refrained from rearranging this incompetent coiffeur's face and had stormed out after smashing the money onto the counter. Next time he would cut his bloody hair himself!

“I will have you know, Mrs Hudson, that I am a grown man and therefore 'cute' is not an appropriate description of me! You can call me 'handsome', or 'attractive', or 'good-looking', or 'appealing' or 'breathtakingly beautiful', but not 'cute'!”

“And what about 'modest'?”

“What does this have to do with anything?!”

“Nothing, my dear, nothing.” She patted his hand. “Would you like tea?”

“By all means, Mrs Hudson. And biscuits! Do you have ginger nuts?! I want some!”

“And 'demanding'…,” she mumbled before turning away to go into her flat.

“Sorry?!” Sherlock glared at her back but she didn’t turn around so he stomped upstairs. Cute! People and their ghastly, silly phrases!

*****

“You see, Mrs Smith, it was a very easy case.” Sherlock was very satisfied with himself.

“You are so brilliant!” the old lady  with the purple hair screamed. “And so cute!”

“Sorry?!”

John giggled and Sherlock shot him a deadly glare.

“Yes! So cute! Are you attached, Mr Holmes?”

“Am I… what?” Was he surrounded only by lunatics today?!

“I have a nephew. A really nice, young man, very decent! He's gay, you know, like you.”

“Like…” Sherlock let himself slump into his chair. How could she say that?! He had never done anything with anyone. Okay, his fantasies were solely about men but… was it so obvious? Not even he had really given that much thinking and now this old woman wanted to play matchmaker for him and her bloody nephew!

“I have a picture of him, here…” She rummaged in her purse, which was bigger than her head.

John got up. “That's not necessary, Mrs Smith. I think another client is waiting outside so if you excuse us now…”

“Oh, I see. Wouldn’t have thought he is _your_ man.”

“What? No, he isn’t! I'm not gay!”

“And not nearly as cute as he is.” With this she got up and left the flat as well as them speechless.

When Sherlock got his senses back, embarrassingly late, he groaned, “If anyone calls me 'cute' again, today or at any other time, I'll strangle them!”

John shook his head. “Why does everybody think I'm gay?! I have a kid for God's sake!”

“And I'm not cute!”

John grinned. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that…”

“I hate you!”

“No, you don't.”

Sherlock wasn't so sure about that right now. In fact he was close to hating _everybody_ these days and especially today…

*****

“Hey, well done, Freak!” Sally Donovan smiled at Sherlock and even winked.

He cringed at the well-known mocking name but quickly realised that she had just teased him. Since his return from the dead she had been a lot nicer to him. Not that she would have ever had apologised for believing he was a killer… But he didn’t really care.

“Thank you,” he said. Then he turned around to see where John was. Their job was done, right at the crime scene in the darkest quarter of his beloved London. Plain as day who had stabbed this poor creature.

“Nice hair by the way.”

“Hm?”

“Suits you, so short. And your trousers… You don't usually wear tight jeans, do you?”

What was this woman on about?! He had just slipped into the first pair of trousers he saw when Lestrade had called. It had happened to be a pair of black jeans he had worn the night before when he had observed someone in a club (which had been dreadfully boring; he would never do something that dull again).

“You look really cute!”

“No! Not you as well!” Sherlock yelled. He had really thought he was safe from this with her, the least feminine woman he had ever come across! She could wrestle him into the ground he was sure. She could kick off his head if she was in the mood! And still she found him fucking _cute_!

John hurried to get at his side. “Sherlock, what's wrong?”

Sally shook her head with a severe eye-rolling. “I simply made him a compliment!”

“Yeah, right! She said I was cute, John!” He fumed when he saw that John was stifling a laugh.

“Oh, that's really nasty,” the doctor choked out.

“You are both so silly!” With this she threw her head back and walked off.

“Come, Sherlock. Let's go home.”

“That won't help! It happens there as well!” Sherlock winced when his phone vibrated. “Oh, that's Molly. She has a liver with hepatitis c for me.”

“How romantic…”

“Nothing between us is romantic, John!” It had been a very nasty conversation – explaining her that no matter how convincing he might have sounded (he was a genius after all and a high-functioning sociopath who could fake feelings), he had not meant this 'I-love-you'-nonsense. But she seemed to have accepted it. It had really been about time…

“No need to snap at me again! Seriously, Sherlock, you haven't been yourself since… since Sherrinford!”

“It has nothing to do with Sherrinford! I went there plenty of times as you know!” Actually it was better when he was there. The music calmed him down. Somehow that didn’t help at home anymore. But he knew going there today was a) not possible as he had to announce the dates at least a week beforehand and b) it wouldn't help anyway. Nothing would save _this_ day… Oh, and don't forget c) – Eurus would certainly call him cute, too, like any other godforsaken woman he had met on this godforsaken day!!!

“Then what is it?”

“I don't know! It drives me mental that I don't know! And today everybody's saying this word to me and it makes me wild!”

“Which word – cu-“

“No! Don't you dare say it! I'm off to the morgue!”

“Greetings to Molly.”

“Hmpf.” Sherlock stalked away. He so had enough of this day… And it was still only early afternoon…

*****

When he hurried into the morgue, he mused once more how peaceful this place was. He wondered how John managed to be around living patients. His flatmate wasn't exactly a patient man… It must be so much nicer to deal with people who didn’t complain when you cut them open.

“Hello Sherlock!” Molly said, blushing, when he reached the autopsy room.

He almost sighed. “Hi. Where is it?”

She made no attempt at getting the organ. “You're wearing your hair shorter.”

He took a very deep breath. “Yes. Accident. Will sue the hairdresser.”

“Oh, why ever? You look really cu-“

“No! Don't say it! You drive me crazy, all of you! I'm a man, with lots of muscles, see!” He pulled up his shirt, revealing his chiselled stomach. And realised that this hadn't been a very good idea. Molly blushed even more and stared at his exposed skin. He hurried to cover himself. “I'm not cute! I'm just… Argh!”

“I'm sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t know it would offend you so much,” she mumbled, her bottom lip shivering.

Sherlock sighed. Great. This wasn't mainly about his reaction to this bloody word, even he could tell that. “I'm sorry, too, I shouldn't have yelled at you. Can I have the liver now?” He should have known it wouldn't work, his poor attempt at changing the subject…

“I mean… I know you said you didn’t mean it.”

No. He couldn’t have this conversation again. Once had already been way too much. He opened his mouth to ask for the liver once more but he didn’t really care about it anymore. He only wanted to escape from this horrible situation. Escape from all that made him mad. In the end he didn’t say anything.

The silence grew. Finally Molly went to a board and then handed him a glass.

He took it. “Thank you. Bye then.”

“Bye, Sherlock.”

She wasn't crying, was she?! “Um… You'll have to find yourself someone else, Molly,” he choked out.

She laughed a bitter little laugh. “As if I didn’t know that. Or hadn't tried it. Nothing works.”

“It will never be, Molly.” He was so fed up with this and his voice was merely a growl.

She nodded. “I know. I've always known. Do you think you'll ever fall for someone?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not really. Who should that be? But if I did, it would be a man. I thought that was obvious.”

“Oh. No, it wasn't. This woman you identified, right here…”

“Ah, Irene! It wasn't even her! That's how well I looked at her… That was an intellectual challenge, nothing else. There is nobody for me.” He turned to leave.

“I hope you'll find someone who makes you happy, Sherlock. You're not happy these days. Don't think you ever were as long as I've known you.”

Sherlock stopped and bit his lip. “Happy? Not sure what this should even mean. But I hope you do know and you will find someone who appreciates you. There's nothing wrong with you. But I'm the wrong man.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was raspy and he knew she was crying again.

“Don't thank me, Molly.” With this he left, the weight of the world on his shoulders.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't planned to end like this. But the boys had their own minds, as usual. Pure terrorists, these two. They wanted sappiness, they got sappiness, and so you will, too :)

No. It couldn’t be. Not that. Not today. Not after being annoyed so much and after no contact at all since… this one day weeks ago when the entire Holmes family had met in Sherrinford.

But the sign was clear – the door-knocker was straightened. Mycroft was there.

Sherlock had returned to Baker Street after leaving St. Bart's. John had texted him that he had to go fetch Rosie and would go to a little zoo with her. So he would have to face his brother alone. He snorted. What was the big deal! And then he stormed into the house and ran up the stairs.

Mycroft was sitting in his chair! Dressed in a grey suit with a yellow shirt, the golden watch-chain visible. All sophisticated man of the world. The stupid umbrella was leaning against the wall.

He lifted a delicate eyebrow and opened his mouth after taking in Sherlock's appearance and Sherlock screamed, “If you say now I look cute, I will kill you!!!” His mouth shut with an audible noise. Was he going mad, finally? That had probably been the last word on his brother's mind…

Mycroft pulled back as if he had slapped him and blushed furiously, his long fingers cramping around the armrests of his chair. Sherlock gaped at him. He had never seen his brother blush before. He looked completely embarrassed. Terrified even!

“Why would I say that, Sherlock,” he mumbled. “I'm here to…”

The thought 'He's lying' popped up only quickly before another one took over and he yelled, “Where were you before?! All this time?! I had to talk to bloody _Anthea_ to make the appointments for Sherrinford! Why did you avoid me?!”

There it was. The reason why he had been feeling so weird all this time. Still he didn’t really know what exactly was the matter but… it was clear it was all Mycroft's fault! “You never called! Never even texted! Never showed up to give me some stupid case you could have solved yourself within five seconds! Why not?!”

“Um, Sherlock… I thought… Since when do you care?” Mycroft had gotten up now and it seemed as if he wasn't exactly steady on his legs. He made a step sidewards as if to grab his damn umbrella and flee.

Sherlock wouldn’t let him. “Since when… You idiot! I always cared! Did you forget Sherrinford? Didn’t you feel what was between us?” It was as if a barrier had crumbled in his brain. Or wasn’t it rather his heart? He had resumed the memories of Victor and Eurus but apparently he had built a new wall around this magic moment when Mycroft had offered his life for him and John. Around the feeling of love that had overwhelmed him at his brother's bravery and self-sacrifice.

Directly afterwards he'd been sedated and then he'd had to find Eurus and save John's life and there had been so much to deal with and to process and then he had chosen to forget it. But his subconscious had not forgotten and it had plagued him with this rotten mood, this oversensitivity and this feeling of being just… wrong.

Mycroft had paled now. “You can't feel… No.”

“What, Mycroft? Can't feel what you feel?”

Two long-fingered hands were held up in self-defence. “Please, don't do that. It's hard enough as it is.”

But the last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. His inability to bond with anyone. To fall in love with anyone. The vague feeling that there was somebody who deserved his love but not knowing who. “That's why I hate it so much… being called 'cute' all day,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “I want only one to call me that!” It was like an epiphany.

“Who?”

Sherlock threw his hands in the air. “Who?! Father Christmas! You, Mycroft! Don't you find me cute?” His voice had gotten quieter with every word.

Mycroft sank down on Sherlock's chair again. Despite his impeccable hair and the perfectly fitting suit, he looked completely deranged. “Cute,” he mumbled. “Cause you're cute, Sherlock. Much more than that. You're perfect. Your face, your body, your brain of course. Perfect. My Sherlock.”

The last two words made Sherlock's heart do a very strange move. Long forgotten pictures of the past were flooding his brain. Yes. He was Mycroft's Sherlock. He had remembered Victor and Eurus after Sherrinford but he only now recalled how close he and Mycroft had been when he'd been so young. Mycroft had taught him everything, not only doing deductions. He had told him stories about pirates before sleeping. He had been there when Sherlock had hit his knee. Had cleaned the wound, put a plaster on it and told Sherlock that pirates were strong men even when they were crying, that it was okay to cry. And Sherlock had slung his arms around his big brother's chubby neck and sobbed and he had loved him so much.

His brother had once told him, _“I was there for you before. I'll be there for you again. I'll always be there for you,”_ and it had been the bloody truth.

Sherlock had buried these memories and all the positive feelings for Mycroft along with the ones of his sister and his missing best friend. And now they were back. As well as the memory of the deep love he had felt for him in Sherrinford.

He wasn’t a kid anymore. He would have needed Mycroft's comfort over the past years more than once though – when he'd been shot. When Mary had died because of his loose tongue. When John had kicked him bloody. Mycroft hadn't been there. Because he had thought Sherlock didn’t care about him anymore. It had damaged their relationship even more but Sherlock knew he was the only one to blame for it. And he hadn't even known that he was craving for his brother.

“Yes,” he said in a raspy voice. “I'm your Sherlock. Always was. Forgive me, brother mine. I was so awful to you.”

Mycroft nodded. “It was your way of dealing with the lost memories of Eurus and Victor. You buried me all along.”

Sherlock winced. “I just dug you up.” After saying this, he winced again. It didn’t really sound right. Mycroft was not a corpse! He was a handsome, fascinating man, and Sherlock had only needed about thirty years to get it…

Mycroft smiled. It was a sad smile. “I'm absolutely happy to find back to a brotherly relationship,” he said gently but stiffly.

“And what if that's not enough for me?”

“What?” Mycroft was obviously shocked. But Sherlock could see something else in his blue eyes. It was hope. A disbelieving hope but still hope.

“You're perfect, Mycroft. Your face. Your body. Your brain. You're my Mycroft.” _Or aren't you?_

“But… are you sure?”

Sherlock shook his head in desperation. “I've never done anything with anyone, Mycroft. It's because of this. Because of you. I don't know how I'll react to a physical relationship. But I want to try.”

He knew he demanded a lot from his brother. It was clear that Mycroft had wanted him for a very long time. This hadn't just happened. And what if he couldn’t cope with what he had just suggested – physical intimacy? Body fluids? Sex? What would it do to Mycroft, to him, to their brotherly relationship if he couldn’t deal with it? But he knew something for sure – if it wasn't Mycroft, it was nobody. And he felt he was ready for it. And that he would love it. He was shocked as hell by this sudden overload of feelings but still he was sure about it.

“I trust you, Mycroft. More than anyone else. You've always been there for me, from a distance. I don't want this distance anymore. Please…” He made a step forward when Mycroft stood up from his chair. And a moment later, they were in each other's arms.

*****

Sherlock's body seemed to have taken off. Floating in the air. Tingling with all possible positive feelings while it was showered – with tender caresses and whispered words of reverence.

_“My beautiful boy…”_

_“My beloved…”_

_“My cute, clever darling…”_

_“My Sherlock…”_

The gates of sentiment had opened up wide for both of them and Mycroft made him melt and shiver with every kiss on his lips, with every nibbling at his jaw or his earlobes, with every gentle tweak of his nipples or stroke over his stomach.

After assuring his brother that John wouldn’t be back so soon and it was safe, they had retreated into Sherlock's bedroom, locking the door, getting naked within seconds. Mycroft had not asked him again if he was sure because it would have been redundant. Sherlock had no idea how far they would go at their first time but he was willing to go all the way. After this first, stunning kiss in the living room it had been clear that Sherlock would not be put off by physical closeness. Not with him.

There had been no fight for dominance in this kiss, no resentment for a past filled with hurt and disappointment, just the promise of a new start full of love and the will to make the other one happy, and Sherlock had thought that in opposite to what he had told Molly earlier, he would definitely know very soon what happiness was, if he didn’t know it already after this first mind-blowing kiss.

Mycroft's lips and fingers and warm breath seemed to be everywhere on his upper body, and Sherlock had long grown hard and needy under these almost tormenting caresses. “Please,” he rasped out. “I need you… down there…” He knew he would return all the touches and kisses but for now he felt unable to even move and he needed release.

He had hardly ever paid attention to his sexuality, not even with his own hands. Masturbation had been a very rare occurrence and so he was as inexperienced as he could get. But now there was no ignoring his achingly swollen cock and he moaned to all heavens when Mycroft's lips closed around the wide, red head.

“Oh, Mycroft, you are so…” He broke off, missing the right word.

Mycroft mumbled something around his dick that he identified a second later as 'cute', and he laughed out loud.

“Yes. Cute and sweet and lovely.” It wasn't an insult, he realised now. No matter that they were both tall, strong, grown, superior men. It just had to come from the right person… “But most of all, you are fucking great at that… Suck me, brother. I want to flood you with my cuteness.”

Mycroft giggled and started swallowing him in earnest. Sherlock leaned back in the pillows, a huge smile on his face, a feeling of peace and happiness filling him up. And then he filled up Mycroft's sucking and lapping and kissing mouth with gushes of come, and he stroked Mycroft's hair while he was swallowing it all down and then licked clean every wrinkle of his foreskin.

A few moments later, Mycroft was lying behind him, holding him against his hairy chest. Sherlock took only half a minute to recover, slumped against this long, warm body, before he turned in Mycroft's embrace and started his own exploration.

His brother was beautiful, that he could say from the start. He had taken his long-limbed, hairy body in with wide eyes when he had undressed. His cock was long and deliciously shaped, his thighs were muscular – Sherlock had always assumed that he spent a lot of time on this treadmill of his – and his belly was flat but soft and Sherlock was sure he would use it as a pillow very often from now on.

They hadn't spoken about it because it wasn't necessary: nobody, especially not John or Mrs Hudson, could ever learn about this relationship. Sherlock had done some research about incest before when he'd had a case involving it, and he knew it was forbidden and would be prosecuted (if Mycroft couldn’t pull some strings to avoid it but they could never risk that). But he would not let him slip away anymore. They would make it work and find creative solutions for being with each other as often as possible. He didn’t have to ask his brother if he wanted that. He saw it in his eyes and felt it in every loving touch on his shoulders and neck and what _Antoine_ had left of his hair.

But Sherlock didn’t let it distract him from his task of mapping every inch of Mycroft's body with his lips and hands. He noticed every small scar and every tiny mole, and he got crazy about the freckles on his shoulders, kissing each and every one of it. He nuzzled his face in the warm skin over his belly and licked the trace of hair down from his navel to his pubes, and then he found himself eye to eye with Mycroft's hard, proudly standing cock.

“Do you think it's cute?” Mycroft teased him.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, brother. This is not cute. It's impressive and tasty and fucking big, but not cute.” And with this he closed his lips around the mushroom head and licked at the underside of it like Mycroft had done with his. A long, loud moan was his reward and he hurried to repeat his action.

It didn’t last long. After about two minutes of twirling his tongue around the head and then probingly taking him deeper and deeper, Mycroft urged him to back away, and Sherlock watched in awe how he came with splashing gushes over his own stomach. He lapped at the mess which made Mycroft hiss, cataloguing the taste and the texture, and then he cleaned him up with a few tissues.

He knew they couldn’t dwell on their newly-found intimacy now; John and Rosie wouldn’t stay away forever.

But they kissed for a few more minutes before they both refreshed themselves in the bathroom, and then Mycroft got dressed while Sherlock just slipped into a dressing gown. John was used to finding him in this casual clothing and he felt too lazy to change back into his suit now.

He brought Mycroft to the door after handing him his umbrella. Mycroft raised his hand to gently touch his cheek. “I'm still in doubt if this really happened, Sherlock,” he said softly and in wonder.

“I can assure you it did, brother mine. When will it happen again?”

Mycroft smiled. “Tomorrow? Seven o'clock, my place?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly. “Can I text you in between?”

“Of course you can. Our phones are both secure.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. This was the best afternoon of my life.”

“And mine, Sherlock. My cute, sweet little brother.”

Sherlock grinned and they kissed again before Mycroft reluctantly left. Sherlock let himself fall into his chair, giggling and feeling just… great… When he was able to get up again, he went to the kitchen and prepared tea for him, John and Rosie. He wondered how he should explain John his change of mood. But then he grinned. He wouldn't. He would simply go on being grumpy. It would be so much fun.

And tomorrow he would make love to his brother again. And again. And that would be even more fun.

When his phone vibrated, he hurried to look at the display.

_I'm already missing you. MH_

_So am I, big brother. Do we have to wait until tomorrow? SH_

_My bad. Of course not. Head over later. I'll be at home around 7pm. MH_

_Can't wait to see you. SH_

_Me neither, my cute, sexy boy. MH_

Sherlock smiled from ear to ear. This was cuteness overload and he couldn’t have loved it any more.

The End

 


End file.
